


Mood Indigo

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [5]
Category: White Collar
Genre: 1960s Harlem, Background Elizabeth/Peter/Neal, Character(s) of Color, Con Artists, F/M, Friendship, Heists, Jazz - Freeform, Older Characters, Police Raid, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever questioned whether June had gone straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mood Indigo

**Author's Note:**

> Huge outpourings of thanks to Treon for plot help, to mergatrude for first reading, to arysteia and the ushobwri community for support and encouragement, to Cyphomandra for beta, and to Farasha for beta and Ameripicking. <3 <3 <3

“What are your plans?” June poured the coffee and sat back in her chair, eyeing Mozzie across the patio table.

He took a bite of brioche. “As yet to be determined.”

“If Neal returns to Europe, you’ll go with him,” interpreted June. She felt a flash of impatience—with herself, with Mozzie, with the entire situation. She’d been Neal and Mozzie’s benefactress, ally and sometime co-conspirator for three years until the tragedy of Neal’s untimely passing twelve months ago, and now they were back—Neal from the dead, and Mozzie from the seclusion of his grief—they still gave no indication they saw her as anything but peripheral, convenient and self-sufficient. She couldn’t demand anything of them, and she didn’t factor into their calculations.

“What?” asked Mozzie, apparently catching some trace of this in her expression.

She dropped a self-indulgent sugar lump into her cup and ignored the question. “Neal seemed in good spirits the other night. Has he really retired?”

“It’s a phase.” Mozzie gestured for emphasis. “What could a law-abiding life possibly offer him, compared to the thrill of a well-executed heist? When I get him back to France—“

“ _If_ you can get him to France. It was a risk to bring him back here.”

“A calculated one. He needed closure.” Mozzie tore off a bite-sized piece of brioche and used it to dab the crumbs from his plate, leaving it pristine. “He was _working_. I mean, in legitimate, tax-paying employment!”

June smiled affectionately while he wasn’t looking. “Well, I for one am glad you’re here. You were both sorely missed.” It was little enough to allow herself, but Mozzie shifted uncomfortably anyway. June suppressed that same flash of impatience. She tapped a thumbnail against her coffee cup for a moment, considering what she could offer to keep him from leaving again. “If you do stay in town, the guest room is at your disposal. And I may require your help with a job.”

Mozzie’s eyebrows twitched. “What kind of a job?”

“Not the legitimate kind, I assure you. A reclamation project, and that is all I’ll say for now.” She sipped her coffee with a deliberately serene air. A relic of the past had been calling to her for months. She’d formulated and discarded a dozen plans to go after it, tried to drown out its siren song with music and common sense, but the temptation was insistent and visceral, and she needed Mozzie—there was no one she trusted so well, not even Neal, and she was too old to be forming a crew on her own. But she had to play it cool or he’d bolt. “CandyLand?”

Mozzie checked the time on his phone and counteroffered with, “Ninja Versus Ninja?”

“Agreed.” She rang for the game and the traditional pitcher of mimosas. “Name your stake.”

 

*

 

“I’m with you, come rain or shine, rain or shine…” June belted out, letting her voice blend with Byron’s trumpet and Phelan’s sax, as they sent music shimmering through the smoky air of the Lenox Lounge. The joint was packed, the crowd warm and enthusiastic, mostly locals but one or two white faces too, all their eyes shining in the dim beyond the spotlight, their ears drinking in every note. It was June’s first gig since the birth of her baby girl, and damn, she’d missed being on stage. She laughed, delighted, as applause swept the room.

At one in the morning, when their final set swung to a close, Nate twirled his double bass and said, “Chickadee, you were on fire,” and big, silent Phelan, who said more with his horn than he ever said with his mouth, mopped his face with a white silk handkerchief and dropped her a sleepy wink. Their drummer, Lonnie, was already on the floor by the stage, chatting up one of the cigar girls, and Byron—

Byron was snapping the clasps on his trumpet case. His tie was loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his face shiny with sweat and satisfaction, and June thought he’d never looked finer, but before she could catch his eye to share the triumph of the evening, Ford stepped into the wings, and just like that, the two of them were deep in a huddle, their voices low, Ford’s shoulders set as smug as Old Nick’s as he no doubt laid out some new hustle.

Maybe the band should incorporate a piano into their sound, to give his restless hands something else to do for once.

The quartet taking the late shift pushed past them and began setting up to play till closing. June hopped off the edge of the low stage and went to the bar for a glass of water. There was no point interrupting the boys, and she should be getting home soon anyway. Her sister Valerie was looking after the baby, but June didn’t like to be away too long. Phelan would walk her, if Byron and Ford were busy scheming.

A heavy-set stranger in a sharp suit strutted up, hat in hand. “Hey, sugar, you were great up there. Buy you a drink?”

June shook her head, and Teddy the barman answered for her.

“The band drinks on the house,” he said, with a glower that made Mr. Sharp Suit back off.

June grinned at Teddy and leaned back against the bar while she finished her water. She was distantly aware of other admiring gazes and glad of her wedding ring to ward off advances, and Teddy as a second line of defense. On stage, the quartet started up with “Ain’t Nobody’s Business.” Byron was shaking his head in the wings, and Ford gesticulating, trying to sweet-talk him into something. It would have to be Phelan, then.

But when she went to retrieve her coat, Ford was nowhere to be seen, and Byron was waiting for her, in his suit jacket now, exchanging easy words with Nate.

“You ready to go, baby?” Byron asked, even though any man in the house would have bought him a drink or two, if he gave them the nod, and any woman too. June had witnessed it firsthand, in the years before the baby came—long nights laughing and drinking with friends and strangers alike, sitting around tables or in rich folks’ homes, spinning tall tales, always someone else picking up the tab. Byron had the looks and dazzling charm of a movie star, and a way about him that made even the drabbest day brighter. Despite being married two years and having a baby girl together, despite the fact she could hold her own in conversation, cards and music, June was far from immune. She’d still catch sight of him sometimes and wonder how she ever got so lucky. Tonight was one of those times.

He helped her into her old fake fur and swung into his greatcoat and they left, arm in arm, walking in comfortable silence until the crowds fell away and there were just the locals, drunks and revelers. Byron was lost in thought, and June was simply glad to have him with her, in the bitterly cold night with frost glittering on the sidewalk, and the exhilaration of the gig still clinging to them like wisps of smoke. She started humming one of the tunes from their set.

Byron blew out a sigh.

“What did Ford want, that had you so engrossed?” she asked, lightly. “He disappeared without saying goodnight.”

“Oh, some half-baked racket.” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and took her hand. She could feel the strength of his fingers through her gloves, was distracted anticipating a more intimate touch, but his expression was serious. “Junie, I’ve been thinking this for a while: the game’s too risky now I’ve got a family. It’s time to clean up—maybe be the next Ellington with his name in lights. You and me, and all the world clamoring to hear us play, can’t you just taste it? But whether it’s music or something else, I’m telling you, we’re only going to have respectable jaunts from now on.”

June laughed. Byron and Ford had been grifting together their whole lives, their fortunes up one day, down the next. Within the space of a week they could go from scraping by to Byron’s buying June a pretty necklace or even a new coat from Blumsteins. A couple of times, Byron had had to pawn his trumpet to pay the rent, but they always bounced back. Ford was her age, give or take, but Byron was eight years older, and he’d done time before she met him, just a short stint. He wasn’t a hardened criminal, never hardened, but the idea of him going straight was paradoxical. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I swear.” He switched his trumpet case to his other hand and tipped her chin, then kissed her, sweet as a promise, romantic as the first day they met. “I’m retiring. Might even get me a regular ol’ job.”

“If you say so,” she teased, flirting up at him through her eyelashes. She didn’t want him to change, but she didn’t want to stand in his way, either. “I guess it’ll be like being married to a whole new man.”

He gazed down at her, refusing to make light. Stubborn as a stain. “You’re a queen, June—you deserve a king as your consort.”

 

*

 

“I have a nail appointment at four, Grandma. What’s this about?” Cindy swanned into the room unannounced, the light from her cellphone screen reflected in her sunglasses. She pushed the shades up onto her head, kissed June’s cheek and took a moment to focus on her immediate surroundings, her eyes softening. “It’s good to see you.”

“I know you’re busy, darling, but I wanted to tell you in person.” June turned down Nina Simone on the stereo and waited while Cindy sat down before she continued. Cindy had lost weight over the last year, had grown distracted and remote. Her mother said she’d withdrawn from her art school friends too. “My news doesn’t really affect you, but I knew you’d want to be kept in the loop.”

Cindy tore her gaze away from the screen again. “What loop?”

“The Neal Caffrey loop,” said June, unsurprised to see a cloud cross her granddaughter’s beautiful face. Cindy had always had a soft spot for Neal. Unrequited, of course—June had made sure of that, because of the gulfs in age, experience and wealth, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking advantage of Cindy’s good looks and sending her up to gather intelligence from time to time under the guise of delivering a tea tray. She smiled now and leaned forward, lowering her voice confidentially. “He’s back.”

Cindy’s mouth turned down. “He died, Grandma. People don’t come back from the dead.”

“Ah, but you know, con men are the exceptions to a lot of rules,” said June. “Sometimes they can even cheat death.”

“Grandpa didn’t.” Cindy had been a child when Byron passed, and it had broken her young heart.

“No. He didn’t.” June was sure of that; Byron would never have faked his death, never willingly have left her.

Neal was another matter. For months, June had doubted his departure from the mortal coil, despite Peter and Mozzie’s somber testimony, but she’d scolded herself every time: either he was dead or he’d run with no intention of looking back. Either way was a tragedy. Either way, she’d never see him again, just like Byron.

“I’m sorry.” Cindy took June’s hand. “I didn’t mean to— You have to admit it sounds impossible. How could Neal come back?”

Dacha, the maid, knocked lightly on the open door. “Elizabeth Burke and Victor Moreau are here to see you.”

“Show them in.” June patted Cindy’s arm. “You can see for yourself.”

Elizabeth and Neal bustled in, Elizabeth bearing a top hat, and Neal wearing jeans and the Burkes’ baby asleep in his carrier. There was a damp mark on Neal’s sleeve. He was bearded and hatless, and couldn’t have looked less the dashing young con artist if he’d tried.

“Oh,” said Cindy faintly. “But how—”

“I hope we’re not interrupting,” said Elizabeth, her voice modulated so as not to wake the child. “We came to return your hat, June, and to thank you so much for your help with the Sullivan party.”

“Official and unofficial,” said Neal, with a wink. “Hi, Cindy. How are you?”

“Neal?”

“It’s Victor now,” he said. “Victor Moreau.”

“Won’t you have some tea?” said June, and waved them into seats around the table.

“I have to go. I’ll be late for my appointment,” said Cindy, her spine and her words equally stiff. She looked around as if for a purse, realized it was already hooked over her arm, then settled her sunglasses back into place and swept out of the room.

“We were interrupting,” said Elizabeth, into the ensuing silence.

“Not at all. Cindy is adjusting to some rather startling news,” said June, sending Neal a wry look.

He ducked his head—probably the closest she’d ever get to an apology—and smoothed a hand over the baby’s back. “Is Moz upstairs? He wanted to ask me something.”

June nodded, and he excused himself, touching Elizabeth’s shoulder as he left the table.

Elizabeth smiled at June. “Victor and Mozzie, still thick as thieves.”

For a second, June was inclined to warn her of the inevitable teething difficulties, relapses and resentment when a man tried to give up the con for love, but she stopped herself. Neal might have much in common with Byron, but Peter and Elizabeth Burke were nothing like June; her experience would not apply. “I was glad this old hat could be of use,” she said, instead, putting the topper on the table beside her and patting it affectionately. “Would you like some cake?”

 

*

 

Central Park was unkempt and strewn with trash, the site of many a drug deal, and it was too hot for real comfort, but June and her sister took the baby there almost daily just the same, walking the dusty paths with the stroller because Rhonda’s cries were less jarring out of doors. She was teething. June was missing Byron. No one gave them any trouble.

“Olivia’s meeting us by the pond,” said Val. Olivia was a new friend. She worked at Smalls Paradise, waiting tables.

“I tried to set her up with Ford, but he refused to play along,” said June. “That man needs something to occupy him.”

“Well, setting him up will never work, and I’m not surprised if he’s steamed at you.” Valerie took over pushing the stroller as Olivia sauntered toward them, wearing a shiny top hat. “Where’d you get the chapeau?”

Olivia smirked. “Found it on my bedroom floor this morning, and claimed it as my own. Hey, sisters. Who’s steamed?”

“Bradford Tullman.”

“Ford Tullman?” Olivia arched her eyebrows and looked at June. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s not steamed,” said June. “He feels responsible about Byron. That’s why he’s keeping an eye on us.” Byron’s reformation had lasted four months until Ford came up with a con he couldn’t resist. Six weeks after that, he was back inside for a twelve-month stretch.

Valerie rolled her eyes. “It’s not responsibility that has him hanging around, Junie. The plain truth is he’s in love with you, like every other man you know.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Everyone was good to June, they liked her, flirted with her sometimes, but they all knew she was Byron’s girl.

Val shook her head. “Believe me, honey, I tried to get Ford’s attention, but he only has eyes for you, Byron and the next big hustle. Ain’t no fun competing with that.”

“She’s right,” said Olivia, straightening up from chucking Rhonda’s little cheek. “Ford’s got it bad. And the band too, every last one of them. How could you be so blind, not to know that?”

“Lonnie flirts with everything in a skirt,” said June. “And Phelan—no.” Phelan was too quiet, practically sexless.

“Lonnie only flirts because he can’t get what he really wants,” said Val.

“And Phelan’s carrying a torch so big, he’ll probably die a virgin if you don’t take pity on him,” added Olivia. “You never know, you might get a hat out of it.”

June scoffed, but she was starting to give them credence. It made her sorry for the boys, but it was exciting too, putting a flush in her cheeks and making her pulse dance as if she were on stage. “It’s only fair,” she said. “All the girls are in love with Byron.”

“Hell, yeah.” Olivia grinned. “You and Byron, honey—you’re Harlem’s sweethearts. Here, you deserve a crown.” She placed the top hat on June’s head with a show of reverence.

June straightened it and posed dramatically, batting her eyelashes against the flash of imaginary press cameras. Then she sighed. “But the boys can’t think I’d actually—I have Byron.”

“And they know it,” said Valerie. “That’s what’s got them acting so crazy.”

June laughed and put her hand on the slight swell of her stomach. “Well, just wait till they hear I’m in a jam again.”

“Oh, June, really? Are you sure?”

June nodded.

“Oh, sister,” said Olivia. “What on earth are we going to do with you?”

 

*

 

“You mentioned a reclamation project,” said Mozzie.

June, who was holding the DVD remote in her lap, paused William Wyler's _How to Steal a Million_. It froze on Peter O’Toole throwing a boomerang through an empty museum. June arched an eyebrow at Mozzie. “Do I take it you’re staying in the city?”

Mozzie’s gesture conveyed both his resignation at Neal’s choice to settle down with the Burkes and the fact that he himself had slept in June’s guest room more often than not over the last weeks. “For now.”

It was the most she could expect, and she should be grateful for it. But not too grateful. She hid the leap in her pulse and kept her demeanor businesslike. “The target is Phelan Brown.”

“Who?”

“An old associate of Byron’s,” said June. “It’s high time I taught him a lesson.”

“What’s the score?”

June glanced at Mozzie, then back to the screen. If he wasn’t committed to staying, she wouldn’t reveal herself. He’d only think her sentimental, anyway. “Diamonds. We’ll need a wheelman.”

He didn’t press for details, instead removing his glasses and polishing them with great attention. “We could ask him.”

Meaning Neal. June had no notion whether he’d come out of retirement for her, but she also had no appetite for finding out. “No. There are other options. What are your plans for this Saturday evening?”

Mozzie replaced his glasses, was trying and failing to disguise his disappointment, but he looked up at that. “You want to recruit a wheelman at the HMS Dancehall.”

“Why not? A rogues’ gallery is exactly what we need.” Plus it would be an opportunity to go dancing, even if none of her potential partners could hold a candle to Byron.

He nodded and hesitated. “At the risk of being indelicate, are you sure you’re up to it? Some degree of agility is usually recommended for B and E.”

“Are you calling me old, little man?” said June, only half joking.

Mozzie held up his hands. “Venerable. Experienced. But if we’re interrupted, we may need to make a hasty escape.”

“Take me dancing on Saturday, and judge for yourself.”

June had learned a thing or two from observing Byron and Ford, and more recently, Neal and Mozzie. Byron and Neal had commanded respect and notoriety, but they’d also been imprisoned, harassed by G-men and criminals alike, and the only way either of them had ultimately been able to escape the cycle of crime and effect was death—real or otherwise.

Mozzie, on the other hand, allowed himself to be underestimated at every turn, and it clearly worked in his favor. No one had arrested him at all, nor seriously attached to him as a nemesis, even though by rights he should have a rap sheet as long as—or even longer than—Neal’s.

Ford fell somewhere in the middle, in terms of both status and retribution by the State.

In the old days, being female had been reason enough for the law and others to overlook a person’s involvement in shady dealings, but times had changed since then—largely for the better, of course, but with some associated inconveniences. So when the past pinged June’s radar a few months ago, she’d considered the matter and taken a leaf from Mozzie’s book: allowing herself to be discounted. In company, she evinced age and reduced mobility, as well as unswerving respectability. No one in their right mind would suspect her of burglary, even if they caught her red-handed! The fact that she undertook daily private Pilates sessions with an attractive young instructor and could hasten up or down a flight of stairs was a secret few needed to know. But if she were to enlist Mozzie in her venture, she would have to prove her mettle.

 

*

 

The brassy melody of “Lullaby of Birdland” rang out through the thin apartment walls for the fifth time that afternoon. Baby Rhonda and her little sister, Mae, were growing accustomed to Byron’s playing, hearing it as a continuous lullaby meant just for them, but the repetition and volume were wearing on June’s last nerve. She’d long since stopped singing along.

Valerie was living with them to help with the kids, and June couldn’t have managed without her, but their over-priced, roach-infested two bedroom on Amsterdam Avenue was crowded even before Byron got out. And now—Well, he was fired up to go straight again, he said. No more hijinks. But he’d lost two jobs already and, with them, the will to find a third. The plain fact was that he was too brilliant to suffer an entry-level position, and with his rap sheet and reputation, there was no chance he’d find anything more elevated. Even Val, who worked part-time for HARYOU, said so.

All his hopes were pinned on his trumpet. “It’s the golden key to our fortunes, baby. We’re going to make the big time,” he’d told her last night, lying in bed with his arms around her.

“If he plays another note, I’m going to lose my mind,” she told Val now. She was sitting on the floor in the four square feet of hallway, breastfeeding Mae in the too-warm breeze from the open window while Val cooked up beans in their pokey kitchenette.

There was a knock on the door, and Rhonda started crying. Byron’s trumpet played on, regardless.

Val rolled her eyes and said, “I hope whoever the hell that is, they ain’t hungry. If I have to stretch this to feed another mouth, we’re all gonna be sobbing.”

“Who’s there?” called June without getting up. She covered herself as best she could without disturbing Mae.

“It’s Ford.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, come in,” shouted June, over the opening bars of “Mood Indigo.”

He came in, tall and well-dressed with hat in hand, and stood looking down at her. His smile faltered at her expression. “What’s going on?”

Rhonda came running out of the living room, clutching her doll, and flung herself at him. “Uncle Ford! I saw a turtle!” and he swung her into his arms and gave her a cuddle.

Byron’s trumpet seemed louder than ever.

June met Ford’s eye. “Get him out of here, now, before I kill him. Go and give him something fruitful to do.”

A gleam entered Ford’s eye, that old spark of mischief, and June was torn between misgivings—she couldn’t lose Byron to Sing Sing again—and an answering glow of exhilaration. Adventure, the con, the glamor and wit of the hustle—she missed those almost as much as she’d missed Byron when he was inside.

“June,” said Val, disapprovingly, but she didn’t say more, just sighed.

It was Ford who asked, “You sure about that, Junie?”

Byron hit high C and held it and held it. One of the neighbors banged on the wall.

“Never been surer,” said June, and Ford nodded and disappeared into the bedroom.

The trumpet stopped. Five minutes later, while June was burping Mae, Byron came out in his good suit. “Ford and me’re going out for a drink.”

“Have fun.” June’s ears were still ringing. The door closed behind them as she put Mae down in her crib. Mae yawned and stretched sleepily.

June straightened up, fear slicing through her, cold as ice. She gasped and ran for the door, down the stairs after them, her hair still in twists, her bare feet slapping on the worn floorboards. “Wait, Byron,” she called. “Wait!”

She sounded hysterical.

She caught up to them halfway down the second flight. They were stopped and looking back, bewildered at the shrieking, and she flung herself into Byron’s arms, nearly tumbling them all down together. Byron grabbed the banister to save them.

“What is it, child?” he said, his arm wrapped firmly around her. “What’s wrong?”

She wasn’t usually so dramatic. She took a gulping breath and pressed against him, the strong beat of his heart erasing the chill in her own. Steadied herself as best she could, tried to calm her racing pulse. “Darling,” she said, when she was nearly herself again, heedless of Ford and whoever else might be listening. “Be careful, my love. Don’t get caught.”

He kissed her, his lips still swollen and hot from his trumpet. “I swear it.”

For three years he was true to his word. It was his and Ford’s most lucrative time. Byron purchased an empty lot on Riverside Drive and built her a mansion beyond her wildest dreams, complete with a phone, a refrigerator and a television set. He replaced the fake furs with real ones and showered her with jewelry. The band didn’t play much, but Byron and June went dancing most every Saturday night, and their girls grew up strong and happy, as fond of their Uncle Ford as they were of Auntie Val.

Byron had never been more alive, and June would sometimes sit up late with the men, listening to their crooked plans and suggesting refinements of her own, which they accepted more often than not. They ran short cons and long cons, draining marks dry from one side of Manhattan to the other. They never let her anywhere near the game, though. “You’re a mother now,” Byron would say. “You’re everything to me. A queen don’t go to war.”

“We’ll ask Olivia,” Ford would say, and June would look at him, feeling that hard knot of guilt that she liked him so much—not as well as she loved Byron, of course, but more than she should—and a twin knot that she’d sent Byron back down this dangerous path, and she’d let it go.

So she wasn’t there the third time Byron was arrested either, didn’t know a thing about it until Olivia showed up, breathless, at six o’clock one morning, and said, “The cops got them, Ford and Byron both.”

“No.” June dropped the pan she was holding, spilling bacon grease across the new linoleum. But all the protests in the world couldn’t bring them back.

 

*

 

 _Who run the world? Girls!_ declared the car stereo.

Mozzie’s reaction was satisfying. “Your music collection reveals unexpected depths,” he said, lowering his binoculars. “Or perhaps I should say widths.”

“I contain multitudes.” June hid a smirk. The song was from a playlist Samantha had made her for Christmas last year. It wasn’t to June’s taste yet, but she hoped if she exposed herself to it often enough, she’d acquire a liking for the fast clipped beats, and be able to share Samantha’s enthusiasm.

“Feel free to yawp barbarically at any time,” said Mozzie, his gaze back on the entrance to the brownstone. “Ranzig keypad lock. Two CCTV cameras—no, three. There’s one on the corner, where those kids are playing.”

“Can you disable the cameras?”

“Do you doubt me?” Mozzie was still scanning every inch of the building.

June forced herself not to shift in her seat. “I wish you’d agreed to use my car.”

“You know as well as I do, we can’t case a residential street in a Jag. Someone would be bound to notice.”

“I know, but the seats in the Jaguar are so much more comfortable.” June sighed. Her back was starting to ache.

“Oh! I brought cushions.” Mozzie popped the trunk of the nondescript sedan and hopped out of the car, returning a moment later with two plump pillows and a throw blanket.

June was too grateful to take offense. She stuffed one of the pillows in the small of her back and surreptitiously straightened her aching knees. That was better.

“So,” said Mozzie. “Phelan Brown. Are you sure he still has the goods?”

“I’m sure,” said June darkly. She would have heard if he’d sold it, and he wasn’t the kind of man to throw away something of such significance.

Mozzie’s eyebrows crested the tops of his fat-rimmed sunglasses. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since 1972.”

He blinked. “Why wait so long?”

“Phelan only moved back to New York six months ago. If you don’t want to help—” June eyed him severely. She had thought she was doing him a favor by allowing him to partake in the job; he was clearly itching for an opportunity to put his talents to use. But if he were humoring her, she’d find another partner in crime.

“Oh, I’m in,” said Mozzie. “Diamonds are forever.”

The back door of the sedan opened, and Neal slid inside. “Hi, guys.”

Mozzie jumped and angled the rear view mirror. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “How did you find us?”

June co-opted the mirror for her own view of Neal, on the grounds of seniority. Mozzie was perfectly capable of twisting around in his seat.

Neal shrugged and passed forward a sweet-smelling, grease-stained paper bag. “You told me you were going to be here. I brought snacks.”

Mozzie flicked June a guilty glance. “That was idle chitchat. I didn’t expect you to show up! Does the Suit know?”

Neal leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of the front seats so his head was almost between them. “Would you calm down? Peter doesn’t know.”

June raised her eyebrows then. If Neal was running around behind the Burkes’ back already, that didn’t bode well for their long-term prospects.

Naturally, Mozzie had other concerns. “And what if he asks—will you tell him? Excuse me if I doubt your discretion.”

“I won’t have to tell him,” said Neal. “I came to see you and June, I brought you food. It’s hardly suspicious, and he’s not going to grill me on the location of the visit.” Mozzie started to interrupt, but Neal cut him off. “Even if he asks what building you’re casing, I can honestly say I don’t know. And it’s not as if your disreputable reputation is a secret.”

Mozzie huffed, still suspicious. “I thought you’d gone straight.”

“I’m just here to deliver refreshments.” Neal gave them a lopsided smile. “I was in the neighborhood. Interesting music choice, by the way.”

The playlist had moved on to a track by Ciara.

“You’re checking up on us.” June hoped that was all it was. She’d been responsible for Byron’s backsliding more than once, but she had no desire to exercise a corrupting influence on Neal, not when he seemed settled and happy in his new life. “You know, we can manage quite well. We have a truly impressive number of years’ experience, between us.”

He smiled broadly, and it was as impossible as ever to discern his agenda. “Just making sure you’re not starving yourselves.”

“Yes, but are you—” Mozzie broke off, interrupting himself. “Wait, isn’t that him?” He held up the old black and white photo June had dug out of her album and compared it to the man exiting the building.

Phelan had aged well. He was still a large man, and he must be into his seventies by now, but Boston had been kind to him. As far as June was aware, he’d made a respectable living running a limo service there and, for reasons unknown, had recently chosen to retire here in the Apple.

He ambled toward the corner just as one of the children playing there threw a softball. It went wide and would have hit a car window if Phelan hadn’t shot out his hand and caught it. He tossed it back to the kids with a stern word of caution and continued on his way.

“Looks like a decent guy,” said Neal. “What did he do to earn your displeasure?”

June raised her chin. “He proposed marriage.”

“After Byron?” asked Mozzie.

“While Byron was inside.”

“Oh,” said Neal and Mozzie in unison.

“Well, I should get going,” added Neal. “Have to call some caterers about an anniversary party. Be careful out here, okay?”

“Goodbye, darling,” said June. “Enjoy your party.”

“We’re just sitting in a car, minding our own business,” said Mozzie. “Perfectly innocent.”

“Right.” Neal took a casual peek into their bag of stakeout equipment, then gave June another fond smile. “See you soon.”

He slid out of the car as nimbly as he’d arrived, and strolled away without looking back, giving no sign of regret or temptation. Perhaps he wasn’t so much like Byron after all.

 

*

 

Ford didn’t have a prior record like Byron did, so he got out first. He showed up one Tuesday morning, older and thinner, but still with that troublemaker gleam in his eye and a smile that said he was glad to see her.

She couldn’t help smiling back.

“Uncle Ford!” shrieked Rhonda, standing up from the breakfast table, spoon still in hand. Mae looked up, but she didn’t remember him well enough to get excited.

“This can’t be Rhonda,” said Ford. “Well, now, you’ve grown into a looker. Got the guys lining up ‘round the block, I’m sure.”

June shooed Rhonda back to the table and hugged Ford close. “It’s so good to see you. How’s Byron, I mean really?”

She visited every week like clockwork, but she could never be sure Byron’s smiles were sincere; perhaps he was conning her to keep her from worrying.

“He’s doing okay.” Ford pulled a small black velvet bag from his pocket and lowered his voice. “He wanted me to give you these—his share of the score. We stashed them before the heat came down, and I can fence them if you need me to.”

“Please tell me no one followed you here,” muttered June, but she took the bag, turned away so the girls couldn’t see and tipped five little gems into her palm: two clear, one yellow, one pink and one blue, all of them sparkling like dewdrops in the sun. “Diamonds?”

Ford nodded.

“I’ve never seen colored diamonds before.” These stones were responsible for Byron’s four year sentence. She dropped them back into the bag and tucked it into her brassiere for safe-keeping. “Girls, if you’re done eating, go and get ready for school. Ford, have you had breakfast yet? Are you hungry?”

She sat him at the table and made eggs and coffee, then took the seat across from him. “What’s your plan, now you’re out?”

Ford Tullman always had a plan.

“I’m thinking cards,” he said. “Maybe start up an underground casino. After all, every game in the world is rigged—I want to play one that tilts in my favor.”

June looked at her hands clasped around her coffee cup. Having Ford back was like having a piece of Byron. And she trusted him, she could count on him. Valerie had married a respectable businessman on the East Side a year ago, so it was just June and the girls now—and they didn’t need money, but June sure was lonely. She didn’t want Ford disappearing out that door again, and she knew he didn’t want that either. It risked getting complicated, but whatever they felt for each other, they both loved Byron more.

She glanced up and caught Ford watching her, and she made a decision. “You know the best place for an underground casino? In the sky. Let me show you.”

She took him upstairs to the guest room on the roof. Ford looked around with an appraising eye. “It’s a sweet spot, but I don’t know, June. You’d have all manner of people coming and going through your home, night and day. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“All manner of customers,” said June. “So long as they’re going with lighter wallets than when they came in, I don’t mind at all.”

Ford grinned and strolled out onto the patio, gave a low whistle when he saw the view. “That skyline is one hell of a draw. I’m telling you, old Byron sure knew what he was doing when he built this place. A joint up here would have more class than anywhere.”

“So let’s do it,” said June.

He turned to her with a familiar speculative gleam and looked her up and down, making her blush. “You know, the high-class casinos, they have a glamorous host—or hostess—to welcome the sheep, make ‘em feel at ease.”

June laughed delightedly, already feeling five years younger. “What’s my cut?”

Of course, Byron was none too pleased when June hinted what they were up to, clearly bothered they were taking such risks without him there to keep an eye on things, but there wasn’t much he could do from inside; they couldn’t even discuss it properly, not with the prison guards nearby. June promised she was fine, she’d be careful, and that Ford knew what he was about.

Six months later, she and the girls took the new Chevrolet Corvair up to Sing Sing to collect Byron on his release. When he walked through the gate, Rhonda darted up to him, shrieking, “Daddy! Daddy!” and although Mae hung back, soon enough she was caught up in the commotion too. Byron gathered them both close.

“Come here, come here, my beautiful girls. I missed you so much! Lord, I missed you.” He picked them up and brought them over to where June was waiting by the car. “You too, Junie. It’s—oh, it’s good to be back.”

The hard shell of her endurance snapped. She dashed away foolish tears before the girls could notice, gripping his sleeve, but that wasn’t nearly enough. They’d wasted too much time apart. By unspoken agreement, they bundled the girls into the car, and then she launched herself at him, and the constant tension in her chest finally eased when his arms came up around her. “Oh, Byron.”

The girls were giggling and squirming around in the back seat, shouting, “Daddy’s coming home!” and Rhonda was winding the window up and down, but June barely noticed because Byron was smoothing her hair, his gaze as warm as ever, full of humor.

She laughed, giddy on her feet from a late night in the casino and too early a morning with the girls; giddy too at having him back with her, the adoration in his eyes, and the answering swell of emotion deep inside her. Somehow she loosened her hold on him long enough to drive them all back to Riverside, where she gave the girls a nickel each for candy and told them to go visit their little playmates Caroline and Marcus next door.

Then she and Byron were alone at last. He pulled her close, and June felt the world turn right-side up. Her family was together, her house a real home. “I love you,” she said, pressing kisses to his cheek, his jaw. “So very much, darling.”

“I’m never leaving again,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m going clean this time.”

She grinned up at him. “Are you sure about that, my love? Then we might have a problem, because this here is a den of high quality vice.”

“So you told me,” he said, frowning. “But you don’t have to do that anymore, Junie. It’s time to shut the business down. I’m back now, and I’m going to be the one to take care of my family.”

“We already know you love us, darling. And if you’re going to usurp anyone, it better be Ford,” June told him. Then she took a good look at his face and tried kissing the frown away. “I am simply sublime at being a hostess, and I’m having the time of my life.”

“Child, the only reason I’m trying to come clean is for you and the girls, and you’re throwing it in my face.”

“Well, I never asked for it! I knew who you were when I married you. I don’t need you to be anyone else.” If he thought she wanted to be wrapped in cotton wool, he’d better think again. Even Ford didn’t believe that anymore. Crime made her sparkle; she loved the challenge and the thrill. They were partners, all three of them, and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but he put his finger to her lips to stop her.

“I’m home now.” He even laughed a little. “Let’s not waste time arguing.”

So they put off talking about it and went to bed, moving together and touching everywhere, relearning each other all over again.

Later, after the girls were asleep, they went upstairs and found Ford welcoming the first wave of customers for the evening. He turned to them, and halted in his tracks. The practiced smile he was wearing transformed into delight.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the house,” he said, pulling Byron into a tight hug. “About time you came back and started pulling your weight, By.” They clapped each other on the back and exchanged warm insults, and if Ford’s arm stayed slung across Byron’s shoulders longer than need be, June decided not to notice.

Eventually the business demanded Ford’s attention, and he returned to the tables, while June took Byron behind the scenes and showed him how much green they were raking.

The doubts Byron had harbored soon set sail for the horizon. “You’ve struck a goldmine. You’re putting me to shame, child.”

“Just following your lead,” she told him, proudly, taking him back to the doorway and surveying the bustling card tables, the cigar stands and busy wet bar. “Runs smooth as honey. And you are my dearest love, you know that, but I don’t want to be called ‘child’ anymore.”

He touched her cheek. “What should I call you, then?”

She thought a moment. “The Countess.”

He burst out laughing, caught her to him and twirled her around, drawing attention from the nearest tables and applause from the bar. “My countess, queen of my heart.”

She curtseyed with a flourish, and the evening became a party.

So June stayed on as hostess, and Byron and Ford ran the tables between them. The girls went to school and learned their lessons, and they were a family: June and Byron, the girls and their Uncle Ford. It was a deliriously happy time. The only thing missing was the music. June sometimes sang a number or two for their guests in the casino, but it tended to distract the punters. Byron’s trumpet stayed locked away in its case, lying fallow.

By the time the raid came, eighteen months later, June had lulled herself into complacency. Almost convinced herself that the casino wasn’t a crime, and the law would wink at them. Then their lookout, thirteen-year-old Sonny, pulled the bell to sound the alarm, and her mind clouded over.

“Get June out of here,” Byron hissed to Ford, and she shook herself into action and helped Ford usher their guests out the two secret exits, leaving Byron to take the heat.

He got four years. The police picked Ford up a day later, and he got two. June cried for a week.

She woke up on a Monday morning, drank a quart of coffee, cleaned herself up and called Valerie, and between them, with Sonny and Rhonda’s help, they packed up the card tables and the cigar stands and sold them to a pawn shop on Lexington. Their casino days were done.

 

*

 

June stood watch by the door to Phelan’s apartment while Mozzie picked the lock. It was a comfortable residence, with two dwellings per floor and only a faint scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. She and Mozzie were wearing the cleaning company uniforms Mozzie had procured, and they looked inconspicuous enough, even if June’s hands were too manicured and her heels too high for a credible charwoman. They’d wanted to bring a cleaning cart, but unfortunately the brownstone was a walk-up.

By their calculations, based on two days’ casing the outside, and Mozzie’s tailing Phelan for an additional two days, they had an hour easy before Phelan returned from the sports bar where he watched the horses.

“Aha!” said Mozzie, and the lock clicked open, just as, with exquisitely bad timing, someone emerged from the door of the facing apartment. June hitched her shoulder bag of “cleaning supplies” more securely onto her shoulder and gripped her mop, trying to keep her face averted while still seeming natural.

“Come on,” said Mozzie, overly loud and cheerful. “We have to finish up here before Mr. Brown gets back. Finish up _cleaning_ , that is. Leave the place spotless.” He pushed June into the apartment, causing her shoulder bag to smack against the doorframe, and closed the door after them.

“That was unfortunate,” said June. She could feel the unknown neighbor’s gaze boring through the door. Perhaps wearing heels had been a mistake. “Who was that?”

“Aisyah Perkins. She’s supposed to be at work.” Mozzie huffed. “Don’t worry, New Yorkers don’t get involved in their neighbors’ business. We just need to get the diamonds and vamoose. What are we looking for?”

“Three stones—one blue, one pink and one canary,” said June.

Mozzie looked around, and June followed his gaze. Phelan’s apartment was the epitome of a bachelor pad: blank walls; a black leather couch strewn with newspapers and discarded clothing; magazines, including some softcore pornography, heaped on a glass coffee table. He clearly wasn’t expecting company. A tangle of ferns and geraniums on the windowsill, in varying states of health. A stereo with a turntable in the corner, and a shelf of LPs. It was all supremely bland but for one distinctive note.

Next to the stereo, on a dresser, sat a cluster of framed photographs. June gravitated toward them, recognizing them instantly—a group shot of the band with Byron at the center, and several of her, including the one Mozzie had used for the cover of her demo album, _The Moz Sessions_ , during the FBI case at the re-opened Cotton Club.

“It appears Mr. Brown is still a fan,” said Mozzie.

“Perhaps.” June considered confiscating the pictures, but decided to be thankful instead; they were, after all, as good as an X marking the spot on a pirate’s treasure map. “Try the bedroom. There might be a safe.”

Mozzie disappeared down a hallway, and June picked up a wooden box secreted behind the picture frames and lifted the lid, holding her breath as she did so.

And yes, there was a bundle—an old silk handkerchief, yellowed with age, and inside it, her prize. She stuffed it into her bag, handkerchief and all, and put the box back on the dresser, and her gaze fell on the record jacket for _Ella in Berlin_ lying on the turntable.

“Oh, the shark has pearly teeth, dear,” she sang under her breath, the lyrics coming to her unbidden. She shook her head and hurried after Mozzie before he could remark on her absence.

“There you are,” he said, from his position, crouched by the bed. “No safe, just a lockbox. Why are you so sure he wouldn’t keep the diamonds in a safety deposit box?”

“Not Phelan,” said June, although it had been decades since she’d seen him. It didn’t matter; the diamonds were merely a cover, a way to distract Mozzie from her real objective. “Can you pick the lock or shall I?”

The lockbox was the size of a small suitcase, old and rusted at the hinges. Mozzie was already at work, his lips narrowed in concentration, and it only took a few seconds. He flung back the lid of the lockbox with a crow of triumph and began rummaging. June wandered to the window, trying to shrug off the song looping through her head. This was no time to get distracted. “Oh, is that—Mozzie, can you hear sirens?” She opened the window.

It had been a ruse to get Mozzie away from the lockbox, but in the distance, there was in fact a distinct wail, rising in urgency and volume. Right at that moment Mozzie’s phone rang, and he sprang up and hurried to the window, peering down the street as he answered. “Eddie, tell me they’re not coming for us.”

Eddie Malecki, their wheelman. They’d left him in the getaway car, a bland Toyota Corolla with forged plates, listening to a police band radio.

“Seriously? The neighbor?” Mozzie’s voice was shrill with exasperation. “How long have we got?”

June took the opportunity to plant the bag of diamonds she’d brought with her. “On the sidewalk, Sunday morning lies a body, oozin’ life,” she hummed.

“We’re on our way.” Mozzie disconnected the call and turned to June. “Any sign of the diamonds?” he asked. “We have to go _now_.”

“I can’t find them,” said June, pretending to search.

“We could take the whole lockbox.” Mozzie tried to lift it, but was obviously struggling. “What’s in here—lead bricks? June, I’m sorry, but we have to cut our losses. Come on!”

The sirens were close. June felt an uncomfortable pressing sensation under her girdle, alarm clenching her stomach as escape was rendered impractical—or at the very least, humiliating. She made a snap decision and threw Plan A out the window. Which meant she had to get Mozzie out of the apartment as quickly and quietly as possible. It was one thing to have her own fingerprints entered into the system, but if she got Mozzie arrested, he’d never trust her again. “You go. I’ll catch up.”

“This is no time to mess around, June!”

June gathered all her dignity. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Didn’t you go before?”

“I’m seventy-eight. It happens,” said June, refusing to succumb to embarrassment. The sirens were right outside, and her personal discomfort was growing. “Go, run. Take Eddie.” She pressed his arm and met his gaze, willing him to believe her. “I will be fine. I have a backup plan.”

“At this rate, you’re going to need a backup for your backup plan,” said Mozzie. “I’m not leaving you!”

“You must.” June surreptitiously palmed the diamonds under the guise of pushing herself upright. She couldn’t give them to Mozzie now—she needed them to manage the authorities—and if he saw them, he’d try to take them for June’s own good, so she wouldn’t be caught with them. She thrust the velvet bag back into the pocket of her cleaning uniform and followed him into the living room. “At least wipe the prints from the front door.”

“There’s no time for that, either.” Mozzie opened the door and peered out. There were footsteps on the stairs, several floors down but rapidly ascending.

“I swear I’ll be all right,” said June. “Run!” She shoved him into the hallway and shut and locked the door before he could stop her, trusting his survival instincts to override his loyalty. Then she hurried to use the commode.

The bathroom was filthy, and the toilet roll empty. Of course.

Luckily, the silk handkerchief was clean. June used that. “Could it be, could it be, could it be Mack the Knife—”

Two rooms away, the police started knocking on the door.

 

*

 

Byron unfolded a crisp new map of the city and spread it across the dining table. “We’re only going to get one shot at this, but it’s going to be big enough we can all retire if we want to.”

“One last score,” said Ford, backing him.

“I said if we want to,” said Byron. He flicked ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “An ambitious man doesn’t stop just because he can.”

Ford was seated at Byron’s right hand, then two young men they’d met in the joint, Stripy Merv and Jamal. Lonnie the drummer from the old band, who’d somehow been roped in, was at the end of the table nearest the kitchen, rounding out the crew. They were all smoking, and Byron and Ford started explaining the heist in low, serious voices, with Ford marking out a get-away route on the map.

June was glad the girls were in bed. She turned away herself and went upstairs to the old, abandoned casino. It was empty now, full of nothing but shadows and memories. She let herself out onto the roof and looked at the clouds hanging low over the city lights. Tried to shake off her mood.

The truth was she missed making music, the thrill and satisfaction of conjuring melody out of thin air, and the joy of being part of the band. Lately it felt like there was no time for singing, no time even for dancing. Byron’s trumpet case was gathering dust, and Ford never so much as glanced at the Steinway.

She opened her mouth to the night and sang a few bars of Lil Green’s “Romance in the Dark” but it fell flat, out here on her own. Music needed ears to hear it.

Half an hour later, Mae found her there, still gazing even though her legs were starting to ache from standing.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs looking for you, and Daddy shouted at me to go away,” said Mae.

“He’s busy working.” June opened her arms to her daughter, a thin wisp of a girl in a yellow nightgown that was nearly too small, with her hair tied up in twists and the corners of her mouth turned down. June hugged her tight. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Mae was nearly ten, and this was the third time her father had gotten out of prison in her lifetime, though she was too young to remember the first. Over all, he’d been inside as much as he’d been out, but June had taken the girls to visit as often as she could. It was just how their family worked.

But this time Byron had come out different. He was harder, tougher, with bigger ideas and no talk of going straight. Gone were the playful smiles, the quixotic dreams. And they were planning to use guns in their next job—if he got caught, it would be serious time.

June shivered.

Mae pressed her face against June’s arm. “Mom, how long is Daddy staying this time? I like it better when it’s just us girls.”

“Now, you know I get lonely without your father,” said June. “He’s my husband, and I miss him.”

“Auntie Val could come back and stay,” said Mae. “Then you wouldn’t be lonely.”

June sat in one of the patio chairs, and set Mae on her knee. “Your father loves you very much, darling. Just give him some time to adjust.”

Mae sighed and didn’t reply, and pretty soon she was asleep in June’s arms. June picked her up, with difficulty, and took her back to her room, with its dolls and toy piano.

Later that night, when Byron came to their bed—the bed that had been empty and too big for too long—she turned over, half asleep, and said, “Did Lonnie say anything about the band playing again?”

“I’m working on a big-time job,” said Byron. “There’s a lot to organize. I don’t have time for fooling around.”

“I know, darling,” said June. “But the band wouldn’t take up much time. You could do both.”

He got up on one elbow, looming over her, a dark shape in the night. “June, are you asking me not to do the job?”

He sounded stern, even forbidding, and her heart ached for him. “Of course not, my love. Do whatever you must. But the band could be a good cover. Something to tell your parole officer.”

He touched her face, his hot hand whispering down her cheek, and bent to kiss her, and she met his mouth urgently, trying with all her heart to show how sorry she was, how much she loved him. She wasn’t sure if he heard her, but with his hands digging into her hips, his cock sliding deep into her heat, it ceased to matter.

And the next day, without any more prompting, he went and tracked down Phelan and Nate, and within twenty-four hours they had a gig lined up at the old Lenox Lounge for a week later. “Time to put those pipes to work, Countess.”

“Of course,” said June, gladly, wondering if it would ever be possible to travel back in time to that innocent night when Byron first talked of giving up the life. She’d give him a different answer, encourage him and help him, if only she could. But it was too late to turn back the clock. That didn’t make the prospect of performing again any less alluring.

The night they played was pure magic. Word had got out that Byron was back, and the Lounge was crowded with familiar faces. Fronting for the band, June was on top of the world.

Afterward, the whole band spilled down to the bar: Byron, mopping his brow and beaming like his old self; June; Nate and Lonnie and their wives, all of them laughing and excited; and big, quiet Phelan. They’d torn up the joint, and it was three in the a.m. Old Teddy was still behind the bar, happy to pour one more round, and the die-hard dancers crowded up to pay their respects, glowing in the close smoky heat of the Lounge. “I love you,” June told Byron, over the noise and crush of the crowd.

One fellow—a White man in a gray suit—somehow threaded his way through the press, making it look easy. “Byron Ellington,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. “Red Daly. I’d like to buy you a drink. Mind if I sit down?”

“Help yourself, baby.” Byron shook. He was still glowing with exhilaration and more than willing to have a stranger lay down money for him. Management had clamped down, and the band no longer drank for free.

Red pulled up a stool on the other side of him, and everyone but the band seemed to melt away. June could hear what he said next plain as day. “You’ll never guess who sent me to hear you play.”

“Duke Ellington,” joked Nate.

“Mary Lou Williams,” said June.

“Coleman Hawkins,” said Lonnie. “Art Tatum. The president of the United States.”

Red held up his hands, grinning. “Sorry I asked. Don Byas sent me. I’m from Columbia Records, and Don’s trumpeter’s out sick. We need a stand-in for a recording session this Monday. What do you say?”

“Monday?” Byron’s face went blank, and June knew why. Their job—the big score, the one with all that careful planning and the maps and the guns—that was set for Monday too. And the logistics were so tight, Ford would kill Byron if he tried to reschedule. If they even _could_ reschedule. He was going to have to choose.

“It’s an opportunity,” said Red. “Don don’t play with just anybody. He’d be here himself, but he had a gig at the Jazz Showcase in Chicago tonight. And we’re recording in quadrophonic.”

“You have to do it, baby.” Nate slapped Byron on the shoulder. “They won’t find anyone better.” Even Phelan managed, “Do it.” Lonnie didn’t say anything; he was in on the job.

“Junie?” Byron looked at her. “You know I can’t pass this one up.”

“Of course you can’t, darling.” She didn’t know if he meant the recording gig or the job, but it was her fault he’d been caught last time: she and Ford had talked him into running the casino, and then he’d taken the heat to let her escape during the raid. She’d forfeited her right of veto. She slung her arm around his waist and kissed his cheek without reservation, wanting him to be happy however he chose. “You’re going to be wonderful.”

“Well, then, this calls for champagne,” said Byron. “Crack us open a jug, would you?”

Old Teddy was pleased to oblige.

 

*

 

As part of her backup plan June had taken the precaution of memorizing Peter Burke’s cellphone number, and she was relieved when he answered. “This is Burke.”

“Peter, I’m afraid I need your help,” said June. “Could I trouble you to come to the 30th precinct police station as soon as possible.”

“June, are you all right? What happened?” Peter sounded alarmed.

“I’m completely fine,” said June. “I’ve simply been arrested for breaking and entering. And larceny.”

“ _What?_ ” Peter’s voice went muffled. “June’s been arrested on a burglary charge. Why are you— Victor, did you know something about this?”

“I may have had an inkling,” said Neal in the background. “Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not okay! She’s been arrested! And if you knew about it, why didn’t you put a stop to it?” Peter sounded as if his blood pressure were rising, which would not help her case at all.

“Peter?” she said. “Hello?”

His sigh was loud in her ear. “Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

June was returned to the holding cell, which housed several interesting characters. She was listening to some prostitutes express their political convictions—surprisingly informed, especially with regard to international trade treaties—when Officer McCutcheon came to escort her to an interview room.

The walls were off-white and in dire need of re-painting, and the linoleum cracked. Peter was sitting on the edge of a gray formica-topped table, wearing jeans and a rumpled shirt. He thanked McCutcheon and waited till she’d left before looking June up and down.

“You broke into a residential apartment in heels?”

June stifled a smile and took a seat at the table. Peter’s presence was reassuring; he wouldn’t send her to prison unless there were no alternative. She merely had to provide him with an excuse. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing in style.”

“Including a diamond heist. I don’t believe this.” Peter pushed off the table and started to pace. June sat in silence and watched, allowing him to set the rhythm of the interview. Finally, he stopped, turned to her and put his hands on his hips. “Was it Mozzie’s idea?”

“Mozzie had nothing to do with it whatsoever.” June folded her hands on the table. She would have liked some tea, but it seemed impolitic to ask at this particular juncture. “I promise you, I didn’t steal any diamonds.”

Peter sighed. “I’ve spoken with the arresting officer. The police are still locating the resident of the apartment you raided, allegedly single-handedly, but the fact of the matter is they caught you with diamonds to the value of one-and-a-half million dollars, combined. That’s serious time, June.”

“One-point-seven million dollars.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Look, if you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”

“I am telling the truth. They’re my diamonds.” His eyes narrowed, and she nodded. “I can prove it—you’ve seen them before.”

“A diamond is a diamond, and I’m no expert. Or were you expecting me to bring Victor to act as appraiser?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said June. “Ask Officer McCutcheon to see the evidence. It’s all right, I can wait.”

Peter stared at her a moment, then huffed and left the room. He came back ten minutes later with the old velvet bag and carefully tipped the diamonds onto the table: one canary yellow, one pink and one royal blue. “These are yours.”

“Yes, you used them to bring down that nasty little jewel thief, David Cook.”

Peter inhaled deeply, apparently torn between aggravation and relief. June supposed he must find it rather a nostalgic feeling. “All right. Then explain to me what your diamonds were doing at Phelan Brown’s apartment. Brown’s in the precinct now, and he’s claiming he doesn’t know anything about them. Did he steal them?”

“No, I brought them with me,” said June. She leaned forward, confidingly. “I didn’t want to have to tell M—my accomplice what I was really after.”

Peter rolled his eyes at the gaffe, but just said, “And what was that?”

June pursed her lips. Even now, she was reluctant to reveal her true prize to anyone, but there was nothing else for it. Her Plan C was to throw herself on Phelan’s mercy, and she would only do that as a very last resort. Far better to trust Peter Burke to understand. “The master tape of a jazz session featuring Don Byas, with Byron Ellington on trumpet. Phelan stole it in 1972, and I wanted very much to hear it. I never did, you see.”

Peter raised his eyebrows, and June patted the solid lump in her girdle where she’d hidden the tape while she was in Phelan’s bathroom. It was digging into her stomach, but the police hadn’t searched her thoroughly enough to uncover it.

Peter was silent for a long moment. “If you couldn’t ask Brown for it, why didn’t you come to me?”

“Where would be the fun in that?” said June, flippantly. At Peter’s incensed look, she capitulated and told the truth. “Because that’s not how the game is played.”

“Breaking and entering, stealing tapes. Some game,” said Peter, sternly, but she knew before he said it that he’d already forgiven her. And that he nonetheless felt it necessary to play out the charade of rebuke and contrition. He sat across from her and folded his arms on the table. “You’ve broken the law. Deliberately, with premeditation.”

June hardly heard him. Somewhere Byron was laughing down at her.

“But—since the diamonds are yours, you’ve only committed misdemeanors, and I’ve managed to convince the police chief to waive the charges. Brown has agreed, as long as nothing else is missing. He doesn’t know your identity.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Peter shook his head. “This isn’t a personal favor. You don’t get a free pass because of everything you’ve done for Neal. Or for El.”

June smiled, encouragingly. “No, I know. You’re helping me in light of my assistance with several of your FBI cases in the past. Quid pro quo.”

Peter scowled. “Exactly. How did you—?”

“I have been around the block once or twice before, Peter,” said June, allowing a twinkle into her eye. She’d observed his handling of Neal during Neal’s work release and his turning of a blind eye to Mozzie’s various enterprises. She knew what made Peter Burke tick.

“Well, if you go around again, I can’t help you,” said Peter. “This is your one and only FBI assist.”

“I understand.” June didn’t believe him for a second, but it hardly mattered; she had no intention of being detained again. She gave him an appreciative smile.

Peter tilted his head as if he could see through her performance as readily as she could see through his. He obviously felt sorely used, but all he said was, “If I didn’t get you out of here, I expect I’d be sleeping on the couch for the next year.”

June laughed, then reached across and touched his hand. “I really am grateful, Peter. I always knew you were one of the good ones.”

And then, because it paid to be underestimated by lawmen, even one’s allies, she made a show of asking for his assistance in getting up out of her chair.

 

*

 

“Police! Open up!” The shouts were muffled, but then there was a God Almighty crash.

June threw back the covers, and she and Byron struggled out of bed. It was barely dawn. Byron grabbed some clothes and started dressing, but June just threw on a robe and ran to see what was happening. There were shouts from downstairs.

Rhonda and Mae were cowering on the landing when she got there. “Both of you, go to Rhonda’s room,” she told them. “Shut the door.”

And then she descended the stairs, terrified and determined not to show it. “Excuse me, what is going on?” she said with all the fierceness she could summon.

There were policemen everywhere, all but one of them White. A red-faced officer, who from his stern expression and lack of activity was apparently in charge, held up a paper. “This is the residence of Byron Ellington. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

“You didn’t have to break down the door!” June stared past him at the skewed gaping hole where her front door had been, the broken plant pots and coats strewn across the entranceway. She pulled herself together and raised her chin at the officer. “You won’t find anything.”

Around her, they were tearing her home apart, casting books from shelves, violently upending furniture, breaking things. The noise battered her. She bit her lip to stop from screaming at them.

Byron came to stand behind her and put steadying hands on her shoulders. “What’s this about?”

“We’ve placed Ford Tullman at the scene of an armed stick-up, and we know for a fact Tullman don’t do anything without his best pal, Ellington.”

“If Ford was involved—and I have only your word to go on that he was—then he was on his own.” Byron sounded calm and lazy, as if the world weren’t ending around them. “When exactly did this alleged stick-up take place?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” said the officer in charge.

“Well, then, I’ve got an alibi.” There was even a hint of pride in Byron’s voice, the warm curl of a smile. “I was in a recording session with Don Byas all day yesterday, for Columbia Records.”

“Sure you were,” said the officer. “The things you’ve done, I wouldn’t put it past you to be in two places at once.” He took out his handcuffs and twirled them around his finger.

A young cop, no more than eighteen or twenty, came running down the stairs—and when had they gone upstairs? were the girls all right?—“Sir, I found something.”

It was the map the crew had used to plan the job. That had been under the bed. The police had violated their bedroom, where the sheets would still be warm from their sleeping bodies. June covered Bryon’s hand on her shoulder as the officer in charge glanced at the map, then looked up with a gleam of vicious triumph. “Byron Ellington, you’re under arrest.”

June tensed, and Byron’s grip tightened. Neither of them moved. For a moment, it was as if they could stay there forever, joined together. Then the officer in charge signaled to one of his flunkies, who wrenched Byron’s arm away, slammed the handcuffs home.

It was the first time June had ever seen the cuffs go on.

“No! You can’t take him!” Mae ran forward, her little hands in fists, like a shrill manifestation of June’s own panic and fury. “Go away! Go away!”

June grabbed her and held her, before one of the cops did something unspeakable. Rhonda was huddled halfway up the stairs, making herself as small as possible.

Another cop—they were all the same, she couldn’t tell them apart—came running from the kitchen. “Sir, we’ve got a gun.”

“That’s never been fired,” said Byron. “Just test it and see.”

The officer in charge nodded to the man with the gun, who swung around and shot the overturned loveseat three times, making Mae scream and June flinch.

“Now it has,” said the officer in charge. “Get those bullets,” he told his men. “We found them at the scene of the stick-up.”

Byron looked at June, and she could see the fear in his eyes, but his voice was still calm. “Call Wilbur. I need a lawyer.”

“With your jacket? A lawyer won’t help you this time. Someone shot a security guard, and we know you were in on it,” blustered the cop who’d fired the gun. The others smirked in agreement.

Byron ignored them all. “Tell Wilbur to talk to Red Daly. He’ll vouch for me. The charges won’t stick, June. I love you.”

“Daddy!” screamed Mae, struggling to get to him as they marched him away.

June held Mae close, outraged and exhausted by the towering injustice of it all, by her own helplessness, her heart breaking for all of them. “I love you too. No matter what.”

June assured her daughters their daddy was innocent, and he’d be out again in no time, but the promises proved false. The case was rammed through the Court in a matter of days. Wilbur argued till he lost his temper and the judge held him in contempt, but it made no difference. The Court disregarded Red Daly’s testimony, even when faced with solid evidence, and Byron was sentenced to twenty-five years.

Ford got twenty-five too, and Lonnie got five. June couldn’t even cry about it, it was so damnably unfair. Valerie came over, and between them and the girls they put the house back together.

Rhonda’s friend’s father, from next door, kindly rehung the front door, and June was painting the doorframe where it had splintered in the police raid when Phelan showed up.

He was carrying a bunch of red roses.

June assumed they were a sympathy gift and took them in her paint-stained hands, burying her face in them although they had no scent. It was a fleeting respite from reality, and for that she was grateful.

“Heard what happened,” said Phelan. “You all right, Junie?”

“We’ll get through it somehow,” said June. “It means a lot that you came. Thank you, Phelan.”

Phelan took a step closer. “That Byron’s in and out of prison like a yo-yo, and now an armed hold-up. I heard they shot a guard.”

“The perpetrators barely grazed the man’s arm,” said June, stiffening. “And Byron wasn’t there. He was stitched up by the police.”

“Bet that’s what he told you.” Phelan shook his head. “He’s a con, June; he always will be. You deserve better. Be mine, and I’ll treat you right, give you everything you ever wanted.”

It was the most words she’d ever heard from him, and for a moment, June was speechless with indignation on Byron’s behalf. Phelan was supposed to be his friend, his bandmate, not come around trying to steal his wife while he was locked up on a bum rap! She dropped the roses into the paint tin and found her voice. “You could give me the moon, and it wouldn’t be enough. I love Byron. I’ll always love Byron. You’re nothing compared to him—you’re nobody.”

Phelan was staring at the roses, his eyes bulging. “I’ll do anything you ask. I love you.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want you,” said June, cruelly. “Go away!”

“He had a chance to make it big,” said Phelan. “Everything comes so easy to him. Well, not anymore.” It was an odd parting shot, but June put it down to sour grapes and forgot about it—

—until Red Daly sent a note a few days later to say the master tape of the Don Byas session had been mysteriously destroyed. “Sorry to say there was a break-in,” he wrote. “The safety copy’s missing, too. It’s a hell of a shame, but we’re going to have to re-record.”

Then June cried. The tears leaked down her cheeks slowly at first, but once she started, she couldn’t stop. She ran upstairs and threw herself onto the bed and wept for everything they’d risked and lost. For Mae, who’d defended her father, and Rhonda, who’d been scared out of her wits. For Ford, who had no one else to cry for him. For the state of the world, and how cruel it all was. _Every game is rigged_ Ford had said, all those years ago, and it was as true now as it had been then. Every damn game.

Most of all, she cried for Byron, who’d tried to play by the rules, for once, to beat the odds, and it had still blown up in his face. And now his big break was lost too.

Finally, she blew her nose and wiped her face. She wouldn’t stand for it! She was going to fix this somehow.

The dresser was heavier than she remembered, but she managed to move it far enough to pry up the floorboard and take out an old, dusty velvet bag from the cavity beneath. The diamonds were as sparkly and beautiful as ever in her palm. She swallowed a sob and tipped the colored ones back into the bag, keeping only the plain clear ones, the largest. Those she wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked into her bra, and later that night when the girls were asleep, she put on her best dress and went to the Lenox Lounge and sat on a stool at the end of the polished mahogany bar.

“Countess of June,” said old Teddy, when he’d done serving the other clientele. “What can I get you? Sorry to hear your band’s broken up, what with Byron inside and now Phelan’s left town.”

June lit a cigarette and took a long drag, meeting his gaze. He was a good man. She trusted him, and she’d hung around the Lenox Lounge enough to get a strong impression he could help her with this kind of problem. “I need to cash in some diamonds. Do you know anyone?”

Teddy’s gaze barely flickered. “Unofficially?”

“Absolutely.” She had no idea how traceable the diamonds were, and the last thing she needed was to get caught selling stolen goods. She flicked ash into the glass tray.

“Well, I might know a guy,” said Teddy, slowly. “My nephew, Hale. Give me a day or two, and I’ll send him your way.”

“I appreciate it, Teddy,” said June. She stubbed out her smoke, leaned across the bar and kissed his old, whiskery cheek. “I appreciate it very much.”

Good as Teddy’s word, Hale came knocking two days later. He got her thirty Gs for the diamonds, more money than she’d seen in her life, and the next day she went downtown and hired a high-priced White defense attorney to bring an appeal on Byron’s conviction. It took two years and the NYPD fought every step of the way, but finally, finally they won.

 

*

 

Peter drove June home from the police station. “Next time you want to retrieve stolen property, please come to me first.”

“Whatever you say,” said June, appreciating the ‘please,’ however long-suffering the tone. All those times in their later years when Byron had refused to call the authorities because trouble with old associates, even the vengeful ones, was less trouble than appealing to the cops for help, and here she was being released and chauffeured home by a solicitous G-man. Would Byron be impressed or appalled? _I know what I’m doing,_ she told him silently. “In the meantime, why don’t you bring the others to dinner on Friday?”

Peter sent her a dry look, either at the change of subject or the oblique reminder of her friendship with Neal and El. The playing field between them might not be level, but it was uneven terrain, nothing he could rely on for the upper hand. “I’ll check our schedules,” he said.

When he pulled up outside the house, he gave her back the diamonds in their velvet bag and raised his eyebrows pointedly. “June, you know Victor cares about you and Mozzie. If the two of you keep up these kinds of shenanigans, especially after getting arrested, you’ll only tempt him to get involved, to keep an eye on you. And I don’t think you want that any more than I do. I hope you don’t.”

“You’re right.” He had her, check and mate. Any future adventures would have to be kept strictly off Neal’s radar. She smiled at Peter, respecting the basis of his appeal—personal rather than legal or moralistic. “I’m glad we understand each other. Let me know about Friday.”

She levered herself out of the car and tottered up the stairs, not resuming her natural gait until she was safely inside. Then, of course, Mozzie sprang out of the hallway shadows and scared the daylights out of her. He was wearing a three-piece pinstripe, a toupee and a fake mustache.

“I can’t believe you made me leave you behind to get arrested!” he said, clearly agitated and aggrieved. “I went to the station to pose as your lawyer, but the Suit arrived before I could go in. I assume that was part of your plan. How did he get you out?”

“I’m fine, Mozzie. I promised I would be,” said June. “I cashed in a favor. Several favors.”

“Are you compromised? Did they give you any kind of implant or a tracker? Did you have any mysterious blackouts while you were in custody?” Mozzie’s gestures signaled concern, but June was tired and thirsty.

“Let me call for some tea, and I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”

And she truly did mean to, but when they’d sat down and procured refreshments, she found herself without the reserves to explain about the tape. There was too much history to easily explain it, and no point in boring Mozzie with talk of those old ghosts. Better to spend today in the present, enjoying her victory.

Thankfully, he seemed content to know she was safe. “Here we are,” he said, wallowing in self-censure, “our first job in over a year, and we suffer from vigiles interruptus. We’re flotsam on the shore of life, divorced and widowed, respectively, floating free. We need to hone our skills!”

June drew herself up. “Speak for yourself, little man. I am nobody’s flotsam, and I’m definitely not washed up.”

“Adults are obsolete children. Dr. Seuss.” Mozzie sighed and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “I’m considering making your guest room my base of operations for the foreseeable future, if that’s acceptable to you.”

June scowled. She'd wanted to be central to someone else's plans, and she knew Mozzie felt responsible for today, she could even understand why, but the offer still reeked of condescension. A terrible overreaction to one little arrest. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“No, you need to see past your pride.” Mozzie glowered. “Or did you only offer Neal board in the first place because he was decorative?”

“I—” June had spent the year of Neal’s death reduced to the company of her granddaughters—much loved, but preoccupied with their own affairs—and her charity colleagues, who naturally were good, respectable men and women. None of them understood June’s true nature, or her grief for a young man who wasn’t a relative, and it had been unfair to his memory to admit how much she felt the loss because he’d reminded her of Byron, of the old days when she herself had been daring and brilliant and the center of so much attention. It seemed even worse to admit it now. “Well, what if I did?”

“Then I suppose I have nothing to offer,” said Mozzie stiffly.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But she couldn’t help smirking at him sitting there, bristling in his toupee and umbrage. Too late, she realized her teasing was poorly timed. “Stay for dinner,” she said.

“I’m otherwise engaged. Good-day, Madam.” He bowed with chilly formality and stalked out before she could apologize or make it right.

And he had the gall to lecture _her_ on pride. She sighed and went upstairs to her bedroom to extract the tape from her girdle. She might be alone and washed up, as Mozzie so rudely suggested, but at least she had rescued Byron’s recording from the purgatory of Phelan’s apartment. It was hers now—an echo of the past.

 

*

 

A balmy summer’s day, and Byron was out at last. He arrived home in the afternoon, rumpled and on edge, as if he hadn’t believed they could win the appeal and still expected his freedom would be snatched away again. June sent the girls to Val’s for the night—something she’d been planning anyway—and took Byron upstairs, out onto the patio, to breathe and find himself again, in their private magical space looking out over the city.

He strolled around for a restless ten minutes, smoking, staring at the view and the sky, running his hand through his hair, and June leaned against the wall and watched over him, gauging how much damage this most recent stint had done. At last he came and put his arms around her, holding her as if she might break. “This feels like a dream, Junie,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m afraid I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone.”

“Trust me, darling,” said June. “I’m not letting you go ever again.” She leaned back against the wall and pulled him to her, kissed him, wanting him more than ever. He’d grown a mustache, and it tickled, and he tasted of hot, bitter cigarettes, but she didn’t mind at all. She drew his hand to her breast. “Make love to me. I’ve missed you so.”

His breath quickened, and his hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt up, and he took her there, under the sky, with her legs wrapped around his waist and both of them clutching each other, all doubt lost in the heat of their bodies moving together. God, it was good to have him back inside her, to have his strong sensitive fingers touch her intimately, knowingly, and to spread her own hands across his shoulders. She’d never been with another man, but she knew she’d hit jackpot—no one else could have loved her as deeply or made her feel so good. And to do it here, to know that whatever happened, they weren’t boring or tamed. God willing, they never would be.

Afterward, they sat on the paving stones of the roof, their backs against the defiled wall, and Byron tapped out another cigarette and lit it.

June stole it and took a drag, blew smoke at the heavens. “What are you thinking about?”

“Ford.” Byron looked somber. “He won’t get parole for another ten or twelve years. It’s my fault they got caught. It was a five-person job.”

“It’s not your fault they decided to go on without you. He’ll be all right—we’ll visit.” June took his hand in both of hers. “Darling, I’ve never asked you this before, but I’m asking now, and I’m quite serious: I want you to retire from the life and stay with the girls and me, and be happy. Do it for me.”

Byron looked hurt. “Countess, everything I’ve done was for you.”

“I know, and I love you for it. The good times were so very good, and you were magnificent.”

“We both were.” Byron took the cigarette and leaned his head back, his eyes slitted like a cat’s.

“And I know we can’t control what happens, the last two years proved that, but we can stack the deck.” June leaned her head on his shoulder and slung her leg over his, and he put his arm around her and stroked up and down her thigh with his free hand. “The cost of doing that kind of business is too high,” she told him softly.

“Oh, baby. You want a straight-up guy, I’ll do it,” said Byron. “You know that. I’ll find some other way to put bread on the table.”

“We’ll find a way. Music or business, or there’s always the rest of the diamonds.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting into the antiques game—go after some of that rich people dough, make a name for myself.” Byron’s lips quirked. “I guess there’s a legitimate way to do it.”

It sounded terribly respectable. June spared a moment’s regret for the glamor of the old days, the casino, the long nights of mischief and excitement, the thrill in the air when a customer believed himself to be on a winning streak, as if everyone were holding their breath, and Byron and Ford’s instinct for the perfect moment to turn the tables.

Then Byron’s arm slid down to her waist, and she knew she didn’t need any of that, only her family around her. She kissed him, feeling pleasantly wanton and debauched. “You give it up for me, and I’ll return the favor. I’ll give up the life for you.”

Byron chuckled, low and warm. “You’re a hell of a woman, June.”

“Damn straight.”

“About the band,” he said after a moment. “Phelan’s gone, but he was never any great shakes anyway. We could scrape together another blower easy, maybe get someone on the ivories. I hear Stripy Merv’s started up a Saturday night music club in Queens. Sure if I asked him, he’d give us a gig.”

“Well now,” said June, cupping his dear, handsome face, “how about you take me dancing there this Saturday, and we can check the joint out together.”

 

*

 

“Are you keeping well, Momma?” Rhonda sounded fond, but a little distracted, as though she were doing several things at once. “I know it’s a difficult time of year. I bought orchids for Dad yesterday. I wish I could get home, but it’s so busy here.” It was sixteen years today since Byron had died of a stroke.

“I completely understand, darling, and I’m doing just fine. Don’t worry about me. Tell me about the agency—what shows are you working on?”

Rhonda had inherited Byron’s way with people; she ran a casting agency in Hollywood and was happily settled there, married to a movie studio executive called Zack. Mae, who was pricklier, had taken her sax to New Orleans after an acrimonious divorce, and she had a solid if not stellar jazz career there; she came to town once a month to see Samantha, who lived with her father.

June loved both her daughters dearly, and she had no intention of burdening either one of them with her own loneliness, nor of shocking them with news of the morning’s arrest. It wasn’t as if the charges had come to anything.

“Oh, I meant to ask, Momma, what can you tell me about this boy, Martin, that Cindy’s started seeing? Have you met him? Is he good enough for my little girl?” said Rhonda, interrupting June’s woolgathering.

“I’ll invite him to tea and report back,” promised June. “Have they been seeing each other long?”

“A few weeks, I think.” Rhonda sounded relieved. “You know, for a while I was sure someone must have broken her heart but good, she was so quiet, but she sounds better now. She sounds happy.”

“Youth bounces back,” said June, sharing Rhonda’s gladness. Victor’s unpolished appearance a few weeks ago had clearly been for the best—she made a mental note to thank him.

The phone beeped, and Rhonda said, “Sorry, Momma, I’ve got another call coming in, and I have to take it. Love you. Talk to you soon.”

“Love you too.” June put the phone back in its cradle and was about to go upstairs to see if the old reel-to-reel deck in the library still worked when Mozzie arrived with a heavy-looking case under his arm.

It was a relief to see him back so soon; with Mozzie, once could never tell whether offence would last a day or several weeks—or whether he’d simply get distracted with other things and forget to come by—and June depended on his companionship more than she was prepared to admit.

“Tea or brandy?” she said, by way of greeting.

“Brandy, if you please,” said Mozzie, formal but no longer stiff. They went into the parlor, June rang for Dacha, and June and Mozzie made painfully polite conversation for some minutes until the brandy arrived and Dacha withdrew.

Then, thankfully, Mozzie dropped the formality. “Neal said the Suit paid a visit to our Mr. Brown.”

“Is that so?” June raised an eyebrow and tried not to seem too curious.

“The statute of limitations has run out on the theft of Byron’s master tape, but the Suit gave him a warning and told him the FBI will be monitoring his activities from now on.”

“A very satisfactory outcome.” June was torn between petty vindictiveness and chagrin that Peter had (indirectly, but nonetheless) told Mozzie about the tape, rather than allowing her to do so herself. Well, it was hardly Peter’s fault she’d flubbed her chance earlier.

Mozzie was watching her. “You wanted to get arrested!”

“Not at all, I promise you,” said June sincerely. “I knew there was a risk, and when it happened, I turned it to my advantage.”

“And what about me? What about Eddie? Did we factor into your plans at all?”

June regarded him with great solemnity. She’d been determined neither of them would be caught, had relied on the knowledge that Mozzie would have scoped out the potential escape routes as part of his recon and had the good sense to use them. Eddie Malecki had been safely ensconced in the getaway car and could certainly take care of himself. Her days of letting someone else take the heat for her were long over. “I’m sorry to have endangered your freedom, but I have to say, Mozzie, I do have the greatest faith in your instinct for self-preservation.”

Thankfully, Mozzie seemed to accept that. He shook his head. “Your prints are in the system now.”

“Regrettably.” June sipped her brandy. “But that merely means that on any future excursions, I shall have to wear gloves.”

Mozzie visibly relaxed, perhaps taking that as confirmation she had been neither traumatized nor unforgivably reckless. He folded his arms and glared at her, but it was obviously mostly for show. “Why didn’t you tell me about the tape?”

June grimaced. “I should have, but I hate appearing sentimental. A diamond heist has a much more elegant cachet.”

The diamonds had also been something of a lure, to catch Mozzie’s interest and give him a reason to get involved. She hadn’t been certain he would have taken such a risk for quixotic reasons. He was, after all, a con artist and a thief, and not so soft-hearted as either the man she’d married nor the one she’d taken in as a boarder. Mozzie was more like Ford, and he’d always had a pragmatic, ruthless streak.

“One more question,” said Mozzie. “What did Phelan Brown really do to irk you? It can’t just have been asking you to marry him. Was it stealing the tape?”

“Stealing the tape was pure hypocrisy,” said June. “But Phelan’s real offense was looking down on Byron for being a con. He thought I deserved better.” She lowered her glass and met Mozzie’s eye. “He couldn’t see that’s who I am too.”

“And proud.”

“You bet your booty, I’m proud.” June raised her chin. “I had no intention of living on his saintly pedestal, and I’m far too old to adopt one now.”

Mozzie held up his glass, and they made a toast of it. Then he patted the case he’d brought with him. “I wasn’t sure if you had a reel-to-reel deck.”

“Upstairs,” said June. “I don’t know if it still works.”

“Well, this one does.” Mozzie tilted his head. “Tell me about the tape?”

So June did. She told him about Byron’s decision to forgo the heist in favor of the recording, and everything that came after that. “Don Byas was a lovely man. He didn’t give two hoots about Bryon’s tangle with the law. He even invited us to travel with him to Europe, if the charges were dropped, but once Byron was sentenced, there was no chance of that.”

“Okay, now I _have_ to hear this.” Mozzie finished his drink and stood up to set the case carefully on the table. “Where’s the tape?”

Under normal circumstances, June would have asked him to leave the room or at least shut his eyes while she retrieved it from its hiding place in the carved out book, but today she did neither. It was an unspoken apology. She brought the tape across to Mozzie without any pretense in her posture or movements and gave it to him.

He didn’t thread it onto the deck right away. He just looked at her. “June, you’re my second-best friend. I can’t believe I have to spell that out.”

“You’re my second-best friend too,” said June. She laughed. Their spat a few hours ago seemed unutterably foolish.

Mozzie’s eyebrows went up. “Neal? Cindy?”

“Ford. He’s still out there somewhere.” June took her seat again and poured another round of brandy, while Mozzie readied the tape.

“Ready?”

“In just a second,” said June. “First I have to say, I’d be honored if you’d take up residence in my guest room, Mozzie. The house is altogether too quiet these days.”

As if in answer, Mozzie set the tape playing. The speakers hissed, and a few moments later, the swish of a snare drum started, and then Don Byas’ saxophone, and a double bass and piano, and Byron’s golden trumpet filled the air.

 

END


End file.
